


God looks the other way

by ratfromasewer



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: 1950s, Basically just fucking really, Bottom!Frank, Excuse me while I drown myself in holy water, Handcuffs, I feel so wrong, Just Sex, M/M, My first published smut fic oh my god send help, Oneshot, POV First Person, PWP, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top!Gerard, What Was I Thinking, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4385576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratfromasewer/pseuds/ratfromasewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1950's; if someone asks, Frank's not sleeping in Gerard's bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God looks the other way

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I've reached the point in my life where I can fully admit the fact that I'm a gross pervert. Here, have my lovely smut oneshot for all of your smut needs, I don't judge anyway. I blame my friend Nelli (known as cmeterydrive on tumblr) for this and I truly am a disgrace, apparently.  
> No but thanks friend for your encouraging words.  
> I'm really gonna do this, am I? Holy shit.  
> Let me know what you think oh my god jesus why

_Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me_ well, the answer would be “gun”, because he’s been there doing his thing again

  Not complaining, I suppose

  He pays the bills, at least.

 

“How’d it go?” I breathe against his collar, “you look so _tired._ ” And he does. Such a weight under foggy eyes, dreamless sleep and nightmares, which make him up, sweaty and screaming. But he doesn’t mention them in the morning and neither do I.

 

(I’m not even sleeping in his bed.

                Not if someone asks.)

 

In the mornings I make coffee and forget to put on pants. In the nights I make something else and pretend to forget everything afterwards. The aftermath of loneliness is secondary compared to a second of oblivion, anyway.

  He pays the bills, I pay him. And sometimes he prays for something better.

 

“Have you ever killed anyone, Frank?” He asks, one of those Gerard-things which should by all signs left ignored but I never can. He holds me close, hands on hips, breathing the scent of my hair.

 

“No” I tell him.

 

“Then you don’t know how it feels like” He says, “so I won’t bother to explain. Just _tired_ is okay.”

  He takes off his boots and leaves them by the door, here and there, everywhere. And if I’d get to decide, he wouldn’t be living alone at all. It isn’t good for him; even if I’m practically moving in, piece by piece.

 

And to all of my friends it’s always the same: _Yeah he’s this good friend of mine_

_Gerard Way, yeah that’s his name, might’ve heard of him_

_He just needs someone to look after his place, no big deal_

And he leaves his gun on the table. The tips of his fingers are ashy and he smells like second-hand smokes and the clubs he lovingly calls his shitholes.

  Night out; he’s been doing his thing, looking for the people who took out his brother, and everything is still fine. As long as he still breathes.

 

And the ground on little-Way’s grave grows flowers this time of year and sometimes Gerard takes candles with him and lights them on the stone and talks about angels to me, and how Mikey’s probably down below rather than up there somewhere, and it’s fine by him.

  Devils of brothers, they were, they _are_.

 

“How’s your day been?” Gerard asks but really he doesn’t care, and neither does he give a shit about my answer when he pins me against the wall, heavy, hungry, all over. Small, tender kisses on temples and cheekbones and jawline and all over, under my shirt, and he kisses my wrists and knuckles and traces fine lines up my arms and my shoulders with his tongue.

  Warmth.

  Him.

 And he kisses me slow and hot and _do you want to_ all over it.

 

“But _ah –_ “ I inhale shakily, “Gerard, Geraa-“ I drag out the last letters of his name when he bites my neck and there’s color all over me, me and my skin that always feels untouched and lonely when he’s not on it.

 

“What is it, Frankie?” He smiles and he looks uncertain, tired. So tired.

“Can I –“

 

“Can you what?”

 

And I want to show him what being eager means, what it means to want someone. Everywhere, if you please. Every-fucking-where.

 

“Baby” I spit out breathy words while he pulls of my shirt, “Baby, we’ve still got those cuffs, right? From one of the – _ah_ – from one of the cops you k…”

 

“Sweetheart, what’re you gonna do with those?” He pecks my ear and shoves me against the wall, forcefully, “what’re you gonna need ‘em for?”

  “Hold you still for me.”

 

 _Hold still_ because I might as well commit to more of those dramatic deadly sins, because no hell will ever compare to the heaven like this, I think.

  Not that I think very much, not now. Now that he’s found _them_ from the drawer and he has this look in his eyes like “please, I want it to hurt” Not too much, but just enough for the both of us. Whatever, whatever, we’re both going to hell anyway.

 

 _Lust_ oops. Been there, done that.

 

“Frankie” He breathes out and I mouth “Bedroom”, and he lets me drag him from the front of his white and sweat-stained shirt, and somewhere along the way we’ve forgotten how to form sentences.

  If someone asks me, I’m not sleeping here.

  Because he’s just a friend who’s having rough time now, and I’m engaged anyway I suppose and it’s all just a game of this and that and who’s gonna marry who for someone’s fat wallet, and I think my fiancée doesn’t even know my middle name.

  And she doesn’t care.

 

It’s nights like these, when I climb on top of Gerard’s body and rip off his shirt, press greedy fingers on his chest and leave tiny, almost non-existing kisses on his skin, when I feel alive. It’s definitely nights like these when the sound of the outside world gets washed away.

 

 _“yeah, fuck yeah”_ he manages, I pull down his pants with my teeth and spread his legs a bit more open, kiss the inside of his thighs and run my fingers above his length. Circles, just circles, on something as handsome as him.

“Hold still” I tell him and I reach for the end of the bed, and it’s sloppy and I’m clumsy but I grab his hands and there’s really nothing that’d be better.

  I suck on his fingers and he lets out a groan which would be embarrassing out of context but really now it just hurts, because there’s this more than a pleasant ache, building up inside and I _need,_ and me needing is just the thing. I need him.

 

_You’re under arrest_

“Technically, I’m only under _you_ ” He smirks, fever eyes. Wrinkles of laughter in the corners, and he looks more alive. Practically naked, all over the bed in a mess of bedsheets and pillows, and the way he looks at me is everything.

  “Does it bother you?” I shrug, blinking innocently, “Because I can stop too, if you want to… leave you like this…”

  I lean to kiss his stomach and I slowly get lower, kiss here, kiss there, and I want to taste him and again, and again, and

 

“Please don’t stop” He _begs_ and it drives me insane how it’s me who does this for him, and how I was raised to believe that this is the worst thing I can do to myself, and how I just can’t bring myself to give the smallest of fucks.

  “Not going to” I promise him, “don’t worry, baby, not going to.”

 

And it’s all handcuffs clinging against bed, breathy moans, sweat, heat, whatever we can take while it’s not too late. And he tries to say something but chokes on his own words while I don’t choke on him, hot and wet all over him, and he doesn’t really complain about it. He doesn’t have the words. And I lick and play along until he’s squirming and panting

  _oh god oh god oh god oh god_

  “God has nothing to do with this” I tell him and reach his face to spend few seconds kissing him, his tongue that’s so good for me, the _everything_ he is, and he does. “Baby, god looks the other way now.”

 

 _Ah_ is his response, just _ah,_ a weak groan from the bottom of his throat and he doesn’t disobey when I move him like I please, just there is fine. It’s all going to be fine, anyway. Sooner or later it will, for the sake of my good intentions.

  Never meant to hurt no one. Except for Gerard, a little bit, but only because he asked. Asked for it, he wanted to.

 

“Frankie I can’t take it much longer”

 “You can and you will.”

 

And everything is him right now, when I watch him and finally get rid of the extra layers, separating us from each other. No more, that is. Jesus fuck, he looks like he’s crawled up from the most beautiful pits of hell right now.

  I don’t mind, I don’t mind at all.

 

“Frankie let me touch you” he’s trying to fight from the handcuffs but he doesn’t really mean it, not really. He’s just lusty eyed and there’s spit like spider web hanging from my mouth now and I lick it and smudge it all over his hips and thighs.

  “No, baby” I kiss his stomach, “no, that’s not gonna happen.”

  “You’ll hurt yourself, Frankie, come on” Genuinely worried, just so good for me. Good man, I suppose. In a sense.

  “I won’t” I smile, “I can do the things that you do for me myself, Gerard.”

 

And so be it.

 

And then there’s the sound of adjusting position and knees finding places from each side of his body and his heavy breathing and the neverending _oh god_ escaping his lips, a solid stream of fucking hells and shits and fuckyeahs when I take the chance to lower myself on him, and he’s there, he’s getting there.

  Me. He’s in me in the most literal sense of all time.

 

“Oh fuck Frankie oh my _god_ ”

 

And so the angels turn their backs and god covers his ears while I slam myself down, crying out because it’s the good kind of pain, the one that reminds me who I am and who I will be, and who he makes me into.

  Good kind of pain, rocking up and down against him and screaming those nonsense things like _please baby_

_please_

  And whatever he’s asking I will try to give him, and whatever I want, I will try and take from him. I miss the feeling of his grip in my overgrown hair and he does too, the way he tries to tell me _hands, Frankie, I wanna_

_I wanna hold you when_

 

And there’s these desperate attempts to open the lock of the handcuffs but hell no, that’s not working out now so I just cling onto his hair instead, up and down and up and down again and it feels like my thigs and my knees are on fire.

 

“Frankie, I’m…” I feel it, “I’m gonna – nevermind –“

 

And he’s gone already, eyes closing, body turning into liquid under me and I’m not too far behind either, and I press against him when it happens and breathe the air from his mouth when the feeling slowly finds its way through my shivering, shaking and painless body.

 

“Well now” He murmurs decades later when I’ve gotten off of him and laying against his side in a comfortable silence, “I’m actually _tired._ ”

  “You want me to free you?” I ask, drawing small lines on his skin.

  “If that’s not too much trouble, yeah.”

 

Angels don’t sleep well tonight.


End file.
